


Makes Three

by pudgy puk (deumion)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Backstory, Character Study, Gen, Parenting (Bad and Otherwise)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-06-01 00:39:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15131282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/pudgy%20puk
Summary: A lesson in Fortemps family values.





	Makes Three

**Author's Note:**

> This is something of an experiment for me: I rarely write in either second person or present tense, and did both here. We'll see how it goes.

Your name is Artoirel Gustavien Edmont de Fortemps, and you are eight years old, going on nine. Home is the Fortemps Manor, the walkways of the Last Vigil outside,the manor of your mother’s family, the cathedral where you were named and the markets and offices of the Pillars. Everyone there seems to know you, or at least that your parents are the kindest and cleverest and most noble people in all of the world, and thus they like you by extension. You have a younger brother, Emmanellain, who is not quite five years old, and all these kind people of the Pillars, when you go out, say that Emmanellain is like to favor his father when he is older, but you—you take after your mother.

Her name is Estella, which you learned the first time you and she were separated, about three years ago: one day after church services, when the grownups conversed for an entire astral age of this star before lunch, you caught sight of a little animal slipping along the cathedral’s baseboard and, believing it to be a kitten, gave chase. Whether or not it was a kitten or a puppy or something else altogether, you never found out; it got away and by the time you gave up on finding it again, you didn’t recognize where you were and how it had gotten to be a labyrinth inside of a dungeon far below the earth. Luckily, when you cried the keeper of that wine cellar heard you—unluckily, he had no idea who Mama was. It wasn’t until the name “Fortemps” left your lips that his confusion abated, and he knew who you must be reunited with. Right after, both Mama and Father taught you about yours and their names. Mama was Estella, Father was Edmont—and, yes, you took your third name from him. It was the first piece of your inheritance you understood, however incompletely.

Now, though, older and wiser as you are, you’re learning much more about who you are, and what that means. Now you have lessons and tutoring after breakfast and after lunch—Emmanellain only has them after breakfast, and sometimes you are envious. You wish he was more appreciative of this freedom, instead of pouty over having to learn letters—but every time you say as much, Mama tells you to hush, it is neither kind nor responsible to gripe. You are the eldest, and that means something.

“But Mama—ow—Mama, he only has to study for two bells!” You’re sitting on her lap—but stiff and upright on her knee, as she is brushing your hair. “But he still says it’s too much!” Right now, you aren’t fidgeting or moving your head even though you want to—settling for watching her face as reflected before you, by the mirror of her vanity.

“He’s not as old as you are, dearest.” She is looking at your hair, not the mirror, and thus misses your frowning at this argument-from-tautology. “You only studied for this long when you were his age.”

“But I didn’t complain,” you counter, and Mama only smiles.

“Oh, Artoirel…”

“I didn’t!” You know this to be true, but still can’t shake the feeling that Mama’s soothing hand on your shoulder is only indulgent, not actually acknowledging this powerful truth.

“Shush, let me finish your hair.” Despite the gentle softness of her touch and the velvet of her sweet voice, there will be no give on this matter, and so you resign yourself to defeat. Still pouting, you watch her and yourself in the mirror.

Every other grownup, as long as you can remember, has said you look like your mother—and, every time they said that, someone always had to comment that she was a “rare beauty.” What that means other than “your mother is lovely and wonderful and marvelous and radiant and divine,” you aren’t terribly concerned with. It’s just a simple fact that she’s beautiful: her skin is soft and milky-white, but her hair is the deepest, darkest blue, like midnight sky. She wears it long, and, after her, so do you wear yours (and so she brushes it every day, yours never looks right when you brush it yourself). Mama’s eyes in the mirror reflection are almost hidden by her lashes, as her face is lowered with her work, but you know their color: dark and black, to match her hair, flawless and clear like her unmarked, unblemished skin. Perhaps this is what other grownups mean when they call her a rare beauty: for your eyes are blue, and so are Father’s, and so are Emmanellain’s, and so it is for most of your friends (at least so far as you can recall). When you are older, Countess Estella will be called “striking” as well, and “regal,” and when the sensibilities of her baby boy the count’s heir are less at risk, “cold and uncanny.” But for now, your mother bent in love is simply, and only, beautiful.

“There, darling,” she says, winding one lock of your hair around her brush, “All done.” Mama lifts her head now, to look at you in the mirror, wrapping her hands around your waist, pulling you back to be held by her. It doesn’t last more than a moment, though. “Now, you have figures to learn. You mustn’t keep Professor Sauveterre waiting.” Mama releases her embrace, but you resist the parting.

“When will Father be back?” You ask. Your reflection is frowning, and (alarmingly) Mama’s brow creases with worry for a second. “He’s been gone all week.”

“He had a sudden matter to attend to,” Mama says, the same thing she had said the day he left. “It was important, but he’ll be home soon.” The same thing she said the day before yesterday. Perhaps it was all that he had told her.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, my dearest. Don’t worry,” Mama bends to kiss the crown of your head, “Next week is Emmanellain’s nameday, and not even a furious dragon could keep him from that!” Her voice dips low with mischief as she mentions the dragon, and suddenly her hands on your middle pull you close and twist into tickling fingers. You dissolve into giggles, and she laughs along, and lets you wriggle free from her arms and her lap, until you stand before her.

“We will have a party, with cake and hot chocolate!” You say, still flushed in the cheeks, but with the discontent over your studies, your brother, and your father firmly driven from your mind. “And candy, and games, and presents!”

“Yes, and even a gift for you!” Mama tweaks the tip of your ear in fun, before her expression grows a bit more sober. “But—this should be the last time you get a gift on your brother’s nameday.”

Certainly, a new development. Namedays of children had always meant presents, but, if Mama says so… You nod, but there is still disappointment clear on your face. Mama explains.

“You are my oldest boy, and you know you have responsibilities. Not every special occasion means presents for you.” She is smiling again, not joyfully but kindly. “That is part of growing up.”

“And becoming Count one day?”

“Yes,” Mama says warmly. “Generous, magnanimous, and self-sacrificing. Now—off with you!” She makes a flourishful shooing gesture, and you, full of warm feeling, hurry out of her chambers, down the stairs to the study.

* * *

 

 

Father insists on decorum, in his life and his family’s. It’s part and parcel, according to Mama, of how he conducts himself ever mindful of his honor, of the dignity of the name of his house, the name you and he share. So you are never rude to anyone, even your servants, and when you are cross, you master your temper (as best you can, and apologize when you don’t), and when, as was explained to you in no uncertain terms, someone such as a tutor helps you (because lessons are important, learning is important), you always comport yourself with dignity, with honor. You are learning how to become a proper young viscount, and are determined not to disappoint.

“This. Is. _Boooooo-ring!_ ” Emmanellain shouts, sinking low in his seat next to yours, arms crossed over his chest and pouting fiercely. Both you and Professor Sauveterre stifle a sigh.

“Finished with the practical already, young master?” Professor Sauveterre, a short and somewhat portly man, whose smattering of grey hairs were well-disguised by his pale blond hair, asks rhetorically.

“Yes,” Emmanellain retorts. Leaning over, you can see that while the top of his practice sheet has spidery, wobbly letters crossing it, about halfway through they transform into scrawls of wyrms and fire and (what are probably meant to be) knights on chocoback. When he catches you peering, he shoves the paper away from you—and into the Professor’s grasp.

“Well,” Sauveterre says, pulling his spectacles down his crooked nose, to peer over their frames at the sheet. “Well well well.” Emmanellain only looks slightly abashed, so you compensate, blushing on his behalf. “Anything to say for yourself, young master?”

“Letters are stupid,” Emmanellain grumbles, not looking the professor in the face. You wince.

“I thought not,” Sauveterre says acidly, then continues, “Young master, letters and literacy are the foundation of public life, especially for a boy of your station, and these lessons are not optional.” Emmanellain is resolutely glaring at the empty desk before him, and apparently Sauveterre’s escalating rhetoric in his scoldings is still not reaching him. “Your lord father and lady mother have entrusted your learning to me, and I do not plan to disappoint them. I will be taking this,” He folded the used practice sheet into a square and pushed it into his pocket, “And you will fill out a new one—correctly, this time.”

His lecture over, Professor Sauveterre turns away from Emmanellain, and to Artoirel. “How, then, are you getting on, young master?” Mutely you show him your own sheet of paper, covered with your own (painstaking, awkward) letters and numbers. Judging by his approving hums, and oh-ho’s, you’re learning your times tables correctly—but you aren’t looking to him, but to Emmanellain. Now that the tutor isn’t looking at him, rather walking back to his table, the defiant set of his jaw is weakening and beginning to quiver. Nervously, you bite your lip, looking between him and Sauveterre.

“Emm,” you whisper—then “Emm!” more loudly, when he doesn’t respond. He accords you but one brief glance. “Give me your paper.”

It seems like a good idea to you. Emmanellain is upset, and if you do the work for him, then…

Unfortunately, Emmanellain hesitates a bare second too long, and the transfer of documents is sighted by Professor Sauveterre.

“ _Master Emmanellain!”_ he bellows, and the both of you jerk with surprise and guilt. You have never before seen any grownup—let alone Professor Sauveterre—so angry, a red flush beginning in his fleshy cheeks and spreading to suffuse both ears. “How dare you! Such disrespect!”

It dawns on you that the professor is placing the blame solely on Emmanellain for this, dawns with an icy jolt that melts to nausea. This wasn’t what you had intended. “Professor, ser—” You stammer as Sauveterre marches back over to your desks, “Ser, you mustn’t, it was all my—”

“I don’t care!” Emmanellain bursts out, arms crossed now more protective than defensive. “This is stupid, letters are stupid, I don’t care!” Both he and Professor Sauveterre are taking in breath to shout again, when—

“What is the meaning of this?!” Mama pushes open the door without a courtesy knock, her voice and face stormy. S _he_ is angry too. Your heart sinks past your stomach, down to your feet and into the floor.

Professor Sauveterre draws himself up to his full height. “My lady,” he begins, quivering with emotion, “Your youngest son refuses to do his studies, and now cajoles his elder brother to do them for him!”

“Emmanellain,” Mama says, calmly but it is very clear to you that she is not happy, “is this true?”

Emmanellain isn’t talking, and it’s quite obvious to you that he is about to cry, and if he cries the grownups would take it as an admission of guilt, so, almost panicking, you intervene. “No! It was me, it was my idea!”

All three seem surprised—Sauveterre most so, Emmanellain mostly trying to control his sniffling, and Mama’s expression quickly settling into something opaque. She kneels next to Emmanellain’s chair, resting her hands comfortingly on his shoulders. “Professor, please leave me with my sons.”

Sauveterre hesitates, but chooses to swallow any response that’s not “My lady,” before hurrying to his supplies and heavy satchel of books, papers, and maps.

“That won’t be necessary,” Mama says, giving more credence to her common (though impossible) assertion that she had eyes in the back of her head, for she hadn’t turned her face from you or your brother. “You can resume your lesson as planned within the bell.” From the corner of your eye, you notice him nod briefly, and then he leaves, softly latching the door behind him.

“Now, Artoirel,” Mama says, her voice quiet and gentle, “What happened?”

“Emmanellain did—did his letters wrong,” You say, taking in a shaky breath. “I thought—because I know my letters, I could do them _for_ him, and—” And then he wouldn’t cry, and everything would be better, you think, but something stops you from saying it out loud.

“I see,” Mama says, softly. She continues to stroke your brother’s shoulders. “Emmanellain, dearest.”

“Yes, Mama?” He answers, and while his voice seems thick, his face looks less red than before.

“I’m glad you listen to your older brother. But he’s not the only one looking out for you.” She leans her head against his. “We all are. Even Professor Sauveterre.” Emmanellain snorts, but Mama hushes him. “The lessons are for your own good. Even if you hate them. They’re good for your head, like milk is for your bones.”

Emmanellain is silent for a little while. “I still like toys and cake more,” he finally says, voice muffled by how he’s turned his head to bury it in Mama’s hair.

“That’s fine. But do them anyhow, just like dinner first, then dessert.” When Emmanellain nods, Mama squeezes him close once, then turns to you. “Artoirel.”

Immediately you lower your eyes to your desk, just as Emmanellain had done. “Yes, Mama.”

“I’m proud of you for wanting to help your brother. That is a noble desire.” You glance up, just high enough and just long enough to see her smiling. “But you can’t solve all his problems for him. He has to learn letters, just as you did.”

“Yes, Mama,” you mumble. Your brow furrows in thought as you turn over the mixed compliment and chiding. “But—if I have a responsibility to help, but I can’t do it…” You look up to her, questioning with voice and eyes, and, like an oracle, she is ready to answer.

“How does it help your brother not to know how to read?” Chastened, you nod in acknowledgment, and she continues on. “You have responsibilities to aid your little brother, but he has responsibilities to you, and one of them is to learn to read and write his own letters. Every privilege comes with obligation, it’s… mutual.” You’re not really clear on that word’s meaning, but nod in agreement all the same. “Your father is the Count, but though that is his privilege, it also means obligation. Things he can do, and things he must do.”

You are even less clear on all of this. It seems a bit too grand to relate to lessons, and to end in a riddle of “can” and “must.” But… “There are right and wrong ways to help?” you volunteer, and are rewarded with Mama’s smile.

“Very good, my dearest. Now, though,” Mama gathered up her skirts and stood, “I must fetch the Professor, so you two can resume your lessons.”

“Mama,” Emmanellain says, suddenly but firmly, surprising you for he had seemed resolute in silence (or at least sulking). “Mama, I want a brother.”

“You have one, darling.”

“Not Artoirel. A younger brother,” Emmanellain clarifies. There is… something about Mama’s smile at this, something beyond amusement with her babies, that grants a mischievous quality to it.

“I’m sure your father and I can arrange that,” Mama answers, with that same mysterious knowing quality in her voice. “Why?”

“I don’t like being littlest.” He is pouting again, but it seems to be more for persuasion of yours and his mother rather than real upset. “It’s no fun.”

“We’ll see, baby,” Mama says, fondly stroking his hair. “We’ll see.”

                                                                                                   

* * *

 

 

That evening, just before dinner, Father comes home. You are the first to hear him arrive, the doorman exclaiming “My lord!” in recognition. You call out to him, overjoyed, before running down the stairs, turning the corner into the foyer, and stopping up short. Father is back, but there is someone else with him, someone you are quite sure you have never seen before.

Standing next to Father is a boy—elezen, like you—with silvery-blue hair, fair skin, and big blue eyes, wide as saucers as he looks around the manor. He seems younger than you, but older than Emmanellain, and is dressed in the manner of shabbier commoners—except for a scarf, which is finely made and brightly colored, far too long for him and thus looped over his neck and the lower half of his face and still the ends drape over his front. That scarf belongs to Father, who has not quite greeted you, still taking off his coat to hand to the doorman.

“Artoirel.” He smiles at you, but he looks very tired, and before you can respond, there’s a loud galumphing and joyful shout from the staircase behind you. Emmanellain has come.

Your brother pays no nevermind to the other boy, but shrieks “DADDY!” the moment he sees him, and (without losing any momentum from the downstairs dash) barrels straight at him, leaping into Father’s arms. You follow, more slowly, but whatever spell the strange boy’s presence had cast on you is now broken.

“Emm, my boy,” Father says fondly, and the tightness in his face seems to ease as he hugs him. The other boy, having automatically gotten out of Emmanellain’s way, is gazing up at the two of them curiously—until he notices you studying him. You quickly avert your eyes in shame—it is rude to stare.

Emmanellain had been babbling quickly and happily while holding on to Father’s neck, but apparently he has finished, and now turns his attention to the matter that preoccupies you. “Daddy,” he asks, peering down at the other boy (who is peering back up at him), “Who’s this?”

Father doesn’t respond at first. He opens his mouth, then closes it, and you tilt your head in confusion. Behind you, you hear more sedate steps on the staircase—Mama is coming.

“Is he a new servant?” Emmanellain asks when Father is silent, leaning down to get a closer look. “Or a kitchen boy?”

“No,” Father says, much more sharply than you were expecting.

“Is he a stable boy?” Emmanellain keeps leaning down until Father stops him, pulls him back upright so he doesn’t fall.

“No, Emm,” Father says, sounding flustered. “He’s—”

“Who _are_ you?” Emmanellain finally thinks to direct the question at the strange boy, as Father has frozen—you realize he is staring behind you, and you turn to see Mama, framed in the entryway—staring at the strange little boy like he was a ghost, not even breathing.

The boy pulls the scarf off his face, exposing rosy cheeks and a thin jaw, weirdly familiar. “M’name’s Haurchefant.”

“He’s your new brother,” Father says carefully to Emmanellain, looking only at him. Behind you, you can hear Mama gasp in a deep breath—worried, you turn to her, and now she’s looking not at the boy—Haurchefant—but at Father, and there is rage in her eyes, in her lips pressed tight together.

You reach up to hold her hand, even though you are frightened now. She takes it, but she doesn’t soften her expression, doesn’t squeeze it reassuringly, doesn’t even look at you, still looking between Father and Haurchefant, stricken.

You squeeze her hand instead.

“But he’s older than me,” Emmanellain complains, apparently oblivious to Mama’s distress. “I wanted a _younger_ brother.” Haurchefant frowns at Emmanellain now, and after a moment, Emmanellain’s brow creases in thought. “Where was he before today?”

“At _my_ home,” Haurchefant says sharply, before Father places a calming hand on his shoulder, shifting to holding Emmanellain with just one arm.

“This is your home now,” Father says, and next to you Mama gasps again, but this time it’s more like a sob, and she squeezes your hand—but not reassuringly. It’s starting to hurt a bit.

“Mama?” you ask softly, confused. This doesn’t make any sense. Why would Mama be angry about a new son? Or about him living here? All the family’s children lived here.

“ _Who is she_?”

You don’t realize it was Mama who said that at first. That voice was cold, and strained—it would have came from hard, twisted lips, hissing and furious. But Mama’s face is like flint now, and her breathing deep.

Emmanellain is starting to look as worried as you are, and Haurchefant looks like he wants to run away. Father is looking Mama straight on, almost unnaturally calm. “Estella—”

“ _WHO IS SHE, EDMONT?!”_ Mama’s voice is like a thunderclap, loud and sudden and then suddenly gone, leaving the manor trembling; instead of grumbles and rumbles trailing off, she gasps for air.

“…Mama.” You tug at her hand, her fingers clenched like iron bars around yours, when you’ve found your voice again (small and quavering as it might be). “Mama, Haurchefant is a boy.” You don’t know how to help, but she seems confused as well as angry. “Mama, there’s no girls here.”

“Estella, the children have done nothing wrong,” Father says sternly, as a rebuke, and you see his hand soothingly rub Haurchefant’s shoulder, Emmanellain clinging tightly to him.

“Don’t you _dare_ hide behind—” Mama is snarling and you are now very scared and her grip tightens until you can’t hold it back anymore and you gasp in pain.

And all of a sudden, Mama’s fury melts away, she lets go of your hand and drops to her knees next to you. “I’m sorry,” she gasps, pulling you to her bosom. “I’m so sorry, my dearest. So sorry.” She takes the hand she squeezed and pulls it to her lips, kissing the knuckles to kiss it better. “My baby, I would never… never ever…”

“It was an emergency.” Father is speaking again, to Mama, his voice gentler, sadder than before. “I would have—if there was time, I would have told you. Prepared you. I would have… given you the news more slowly.” He sighs, ragged. “There wasn’t time.”

“Edmont,” Mama looks up to Father, and all her melted anger is turned to tears, her voice is a sob. “ _Edmont…_ ”

Mama is still holding you, and you look at Emmanellain and Haurchefant in turn. Both of them seem concerned, confused—just like you.

“Daddy,” Emmanellain finally says, squirming awkwardly. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t worry, Emm.” Father leans in to him, to kiss his forehead. “Mother and Father have to talk. It doesn’t concern you.” There’s no way that’s true, you are absolutely certain. But you nod obediently anyhow.

“The children can have their dinner in bed,” Father says as he lowers Emmanellain to the floor. He offers his hand to Mama. “Come on, Estella.” His voice is the softest and gentlest that you have ever heard it before.

Mama uses the wall to push herself to her feet. “I will retire for the night,” she says, tightly controlled voice but her chin trembling. “I fear I am not well. If my lord would take the south wing chambers—it would not do for him to catch it as well.”

Father nods, his expression unreadable, and Mama turns and leaves. After that, everyone will say that she never let him touch her again, but you know it cannot be true—you had glimpsed him taking her hand, or trying to stroke her hair; when he thought he and Mother were alone he would stroke her face, try to tilt her chin so she looked him in the eyes. But for all that, the next time you ever saw him kiss her was years later, as her last breath left her.

By then, you understood.


End file.
